


Black Labyrinth

by pantheon_of_discord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, Descriptions of gore, Horror, M/M, POV Alternating, Reality Bending, Torture, dubcon - full spoilery description in end notes, eldritch nightmare monster, it's a romp, lots of Sam eyerolls, lots of bickering, lots of dead bodies, lots of sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 09:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantheon_of_discord/pseuds/pantheon_of_discord
Summary: A lacerated corpse and whispers of a monster draw Team Free Will to the west coast. Desperate for a break from Dean and Cas’ latest snit, Sam chases a lead on his own, only to vanish without a trace.When the hours tick on and Sam doesn’t return, Dean and Cas set aside their issues and follow his trail to an old shipyard. What they find, however, is a twisting maze of illusion and torment, where the air reeks of death and the very walls tell lies. Reality shatters and reforms, over and over, putting their bond to the test – but they grow no closer to finding Sam.Sam, meanwhile, sits face to face with a creature of nightmares, spinning deceptions all its own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, and thanks for stopping by! Here is my entry for the 2018 Dean/Cas Reverse Bang! It was my first reverse challenge and it was SO MUCH FUN. 
> 
> My biggest and most humble thanks to my crazy talented partner, [Quickreaver!](https://quickreaver.tumblr.com) I can still barely believe I got to work with such a powerhouse of talent. This art is gorgeous and _creepifying_ and you were so great to work with. Everybody go check out the [art masterpost here!](http://quickreaver.tumblr.com/post/175121440159/okay-so-i-had-lots-of-fun-with-therel=)
> 
> More thanks are in order – to [Bexy](https://hufflepuffdean.tumblr.com), my constant friend and beta. Thank u fer makin’ mah words good. To [Ene](https://ricketyjukeboxer.tumblr.com), my beautiful girlfriend. Thanks for always being my #1 fan. All my love. To all my people in the RB Discord server, thank you thank you thank you for your advice and cheerleading! And finally, to Jojo and Muse, who bar none run the tightest mother-effing ship (heh) in the fandom. Y’all are the best mods a humble writer could ever ask for. 
> 
> **Note** : This work is tagged ‘dubcon,’ for good reason. There is a full, spoilery explanation in the end notes – I encourage you to read it if you have any doubts or concerns.

 

The light is blinding.

Jamie Marasco stumbles through the iron door and blinks up at the sky through hazy eyes. It’s overcast, but the glow of pearl-grey light is enough to force his eyelids shut again. He’s been in the dark for so long.

 _The road. Get to the road_.

He starts moving, as quick as he can manage, staggering steps down the gangway with his free hand sliding along the rail for support. The air smells sharp and sour. He blinks, compelling his eyes to adjust as his movements grow slower, sluggish. _Get to the road._

The gangway meets the dock, and Jamie follows it straight back toward the shoreline, putting as much distance between him and. . . and the _thing_ as he can.

It isn’t possible. He spent years of his life convincing himself the monster wasn’t _real_. A childhood nightmare, that’s all.

Pain sears across his stomach, and he looks down to find that his hand isn’t doing much to quell the flow of blood. He keeps moving.

Every terrified glance he throws over his shoulder is met with renewed dizziness – enough to almost send him toppling into the water – so he forgets what’s following him and just runs, as fast as he’s able. At long last he comes to a set of stairs, where cars are whizzing by on the road up above. His knees are getting weaker, consciousness is slipping away, but he starts to climb.

Renewed agony has him doubled over on the stairs. The blood is pouring out now, soaking through his jeans. He’s so tired; he wants to stop, just collapse on the steps and not move again.

_You need to get to the road._

Somehow, there’s one last reserve of energy within him. He heaves his way up to the top of the stairs and staggers forward onto the sidewalk. That’s all the strength he has left, though, and before he can wave down a car, he crumples to the ground.

The scent of the sea has been overtaken by the metallic tang of blood. Distantly, Jamie hears a car screech to a stop, followed by panicked voices. Relief flows through him, and his blurring eyes drift up to the cloudy sky. As he slips away, he wishes he’d been able to see the sun.

 

//

 

Sam and Cas follow a pace behind the nurse as she does her rounds. “I mean, I’ve seen my fair share of awful,” she says. “But I’ll be honest, this was something else.”

Sam nods, offering her a sympathetic smile. “The coroner’s report said ‘multiple lacerations,’ is that right?”

“Yeah,” she says, grimacing. “Must have been eight or nine. Deep cuts, all over his chest and abdomen.”

“Was there any kind of pattern to them?” Cas asks. “Any symbols, or were they perhaps claw marks?”

Sam clears his throat uncomfortably, but the nurse just gives Cas a puzzled look. “Uh, no, not really. And they were the only injuries we could find on him.”

“Right.” Sam makes a few notes on his pad, before looking up again. “Now, you told the other officers he was saying something.”

She throws her hands up a little. “I think he was just babbling, honestly, didn’t make much sense. But he kept talking about the monster. Said the monster was back.”

“Did he describe this monster?” Cas says.

Again, the nurse seems thrown. “Uh, no. Listen, detectives, he was suffering severe blood loss. At that stage, it’s a wonder he was able to talk at all.”

Cas opens his mouth, but Sam cuts him off. “Of course. Thanks for your help. If you think of anything else that might help, give us a call,” he says, handing over his card.

“Of course,” she says, casting Cas one last confused look, before returning to the front desk.

Sam waits until she’s out of earshot, then leans over to Cas. “Still a little intense there, man.”

“Those were perfectly reasonable questions,” Cas says, then he catches sight of something over Sam’s shoulder and his posture stiffens.

Turning around, Sam spots Dean coming down the hall, pocketing his own notepad.

Once he reaches them, he glances around the waiting room before dropping his voice low. “‘Kay well, we were wrong. Not a werewolf.”

“Heart still there?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. “Yep, and those were definitely not claw marks. Way too clean.”

“Damn, there goes that theory,” Sam says.

“You know what else,” Dean says thoughtfully. “The guy was really pale.”

“That isn’t that unusual,” Cas says, rather snidely.

Dean narrows his eyes. “I don’t mean ‘hasn’t been to the beach’ pale,” he snarks back. “I mean ‘hasn’t left the basement in a year’ pale.”

“Okay,” Sam says, before Cas can do more than glare. “But the nurse said no other injuries, right? And he had no ID or anything?”

After taking a good long moment to glare back at Cas, Dean turns to Sam. “Right. We got nothin’ on him.”

“I think we need coffee,” Cas says abruptly, then starts walking off down the hall to the machine.

Thrown, Dean blinks at Sam before turning his head after Cas. “Two sugars!”

“I _know_ ,” Cas snaps back, then rounds the corner.

As he turns back around, Sam catches Dean rolling his eyes heavily. “So, you gonna tell me what’s going on with you two yet?” Sam asks.

“We’re fine, Sam,” Dean says.

“Yeah right.” Sam gestures helplessly down the hall. “It’s been three days of this. What the hell did you do?”

“Why do you always think it’s something _I_ did?” Dean says defensively. “Don’t answer that.”

Sam plants his hands on his hips. “Alright, if nothing’s wrong, then you won’t mind sticking with him, trying to figure out who this John Doe is.”

Dean looks satisfyingly alarmed at the suggestion. “Why do I have to?”

Smirking, Sam pulls his notebook back out. “Because it’s your turn.”

“Well, what are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna head down to the shipyard. Cops didn’t find anything, but we both know that doesn’t mean jack.” He flips through a few pages for the address.

“Whoa, hang on. You’re not walkin’ in there alone,” Dean says. “ _I’ll_ come with you to the shipyard, Cas can work on ID-ing Mr. Slice-and-Dice.”

“I thought it wasn’t a problem?” Sam says, then shakes his head. “C’mon, this is only his, what, third case as a human?”

“Cas doesn’t need his hand held, Sam, he’s a big boy,” Dean says. Then abruptly, he blushes, dropping his gaze.

Deciding that he emphatically _does_ _not want to know_ , Sam closes the notebook and slides it back in his pocket. “And so am I, Dean, I’ll be fine. Besides, I think the two of you could really use some _quality time_.”

As if on cue, Cas comes back around the corner with a tray of coffees. Sam pulls his out as soon as Cas comes to a stop. “Alright, text when you’ve got an ID. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

As he walks down the hall, he can feel Dean’s glare on the back of his head.

 

//

 

Dean is half a second from taking his laptop out into the car to work.

It’s been three hours of some of the most uncomfortable silence of his life, and that includes the weeks in the car with Dad, after Sam took off for Stanford.

Cas is just so _silent_ , sitting in front of his own laptop and resolutely ignoring him. Dean makes a point of huffing and sighing at his computer, and rustling through the papers and files strewn about the bed, just to see if Cas will react. Even if it’s just another fucking death glare.

However, it seems that Cas’ angelic patience managed to make the leap into his human body.

Dean’s brain stalls a little, distracted by thoughts of Cas’ human body. . .

“I’m hungry.”

Startled, Dean looks back up at Cas’ face. It’s the first words he’s spoken in hours. “What?”

Cas looks annoyed. “I said I’m _hungry_.”

Irritation takes over again. “Okay well, do something about it then. I ain’t your waiter.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted anything,” Cas snaps.

“Yeah, fine, whatever you’re getting.” Dean rolls his shoulders uncomfortably, then studiously looks back at his computer.

Cas lets out a long-suffering sigh, then picks up his phone. He’s halfway through a pizza order when their John Doe flashes up on Dean’s screen.

“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” he says.

Frowning, Cas looks over. “You said you wanted what I was getting.”

“No, not that, genius,” Dean says . “Hang up the phone. I got him.”

Looking slightly put out, Cas hangs up and moves over to the bed. He leans in to look at the screen, and Dean tries very hard not to be distracted.

“Jamie Marasco, thirty-one. He’s from Cincinnati – no wonder we couldn’t find him. The hell’s he doing in California?”

“Dean, look at this.” Cas points to the posting date. “This missing persons report is more than six months old.”

Dean nods. “Poor bastard. Guess that explains the pale thing,” he says pointedly, unable to help himself.

Cas’ eye roll is practically audible. “I’ll text Sam.”

“Fine,” Dean says. “I’ll order food. You want chicken?”

 

//

 

After nearly four hours at the docks, Sam’s beginning to understand why the Eureka police department didn’t find anything. There’s _nothing_ here.

Sam flips open the file in his hand. The witness who brought the John Doe to the hospital saw him stagger up onto the road from the east staircase, completely covered in blood. And yet there’s none here – no blood trail, and nothing to ever indicate there was one. He’s checked every speedboat and tanker he could access, followed every stretch of the dock. It’s as if the vic appeared out of nowhere.

The afternoon is wearing on, and Sam still has nothing to show for it. He’s contemplating giving up for the day when his phone buzzes with a text from Cas. They have the vic’s name now, and at the very least, this proves that Cas and Dean can still get something done without killing each other.

Sam is about to respond to the message when suddenly here’s a thump and a rustling up ahead to his right. Instinct kicks in immediately, and Sam pulls the gun from the waist of his pants. “Hello?”

There’s no response, no other sound, but then suddenly, the air ripples. At first Sam thinks it’s his vision, but as he blinks and shakes his head he realizes it’s everything around him that’s blurring. The dock at his feet, the myriad ropes and buckets, the rusty tanker to his left – everything seems to shift in waves. It grows stronger and stronger, and just as Sam braces himself for the worst, it stops all at once.

Keeping his gun held high, Sam looks around rapidly, his heart pounding. At first, it seems like nothing is different, but then he looks down and catches sight of the blood.

It’s everywhere, drips and dark stains on the wood that lead all the way back towards the stairs. Somehow it’s just appeared – or perhaps it was all hidden, and whatever magic just rippled through the air revealed it. He looks forward again, and then slowly starts following the trail, throwing cautious glances around him.

Just as he peers around the corner of an ancient-looking houseboat, there’s a sharp pain to the back of his head and everything goes black.

 

//

 

“You heard anything yet?” Dean briefly pauses his pacing across the motel room.

“Not since the last time you asked,” Cas says wearily, eyes still focused on the laptop screen.

For something to do, Dean gathers up the trash from their dinner. “He should’ve got back to us by now. Something’s wrong.” Cas doesn’t react, so Dean angrily pitches the greasy chicken bucket into the garbage. “What are you _doing_?”

“I’m reading into our victim,” Cas says, largely ignoring Dean’s ranting. “I found another police report where he’s mentioned.”

Momentarily distracted, Dean moves over to the table to peer over Cas’ shoulder. “What, since he’s been missing?”

Cas shakes his head. “No. It’s from 1993.”

“The hell. . .” Dean says, reaching around Cas’ shoulder and jostling him out of the way to reach the keyboard.

“Help yourself,” Cas mutters. “Apparently when Jamie was six years old, he witnessed his mother’s kidnapping.”

“Yikes, tough break,” Dean says, scanning the report. “She was never found.”

Cas pushes away from the table entirely and stands. “No, she wasn’t. And when he was interviewed by social services, Jamie claimed that a monster took her.”

Dean turns around and raises his eyebrows.

“A monster with a long, sharp knife.”

Dean leans back and stands up straight again. “So what, family curse?” he says. “Ritual maybe?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says, shrugging. “But this can’t be a coincidence.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Dean walks back to his bed and starts gathering his things. “Okay, that’s it. We’re going to the shipyard, right now.”

The drive to the docks is quiet and tense. Beyond Cas’ huffy silence, there’s a familiar knot in Dean’s stomach, the one that he always feels when Sam is in danger. He tries to ignore it and focuses on the road.

The afternoon light is fading by the time they arrive. Dean pulls his gun out without hesitation, keeping the muzzle down but at the ready. He leads the way down the stairs to the docks, Cas right behind with his own gun in hand.

It’s deserted and silent, save for the gentle slosh of water against the wood and their own careful footsteps as they make their way along the dock.

They’re a few minutes along, following half a dozen turns through the twisting maze of planks, when they come to a junction. Dean comes to a stop and throws an arm up. “Hang on,” he mutters, and pulls out his phone. He dials Sam’s number, but keeps the phone down by his side.

“I’ve already tried calling him,” Cas says.

“Shh, shut up and listen,” Dean hisses back, then cocks his head.

Cas nods in realization, then starts to look around, straining to hear as well. “Alright,” he whispers. “You keep calling – we’ll split up and listen.”

“Oh yeah, you wanna take off. Figures,” Dean says.

Cas looks back at him incredulously. “Do you _really_ think this is the time?”

The knot in Dean’s stomach twists a little, a reminder, so he swallows his retort. “Fine. We split up. But don’t go too far.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but nods, then heads off down the dock.

After taking a few breaths to centre his head, Dean starts off along the right-hand fork. One ear stays trained on Cas’ slow, careful footsteps, until they fade completely away. Dean keeps listening for the ringtone as he moves along the dock, until finally he hears a low rumble against the wood.

In the dim light, he catches sight of a phone buzzing along the dock up ahead. Heart sinking to his knees, he bends down to grab it and sees his own contact picture glowing as an incoming call.

“Damn it, Sammy,” he mutters, then gunshots ring out from the docks to his left.

“ _Dean!_ ”

Cas’ panicked voice echoes back across the water, and Dean takes off running back the way he came, terror pounding in his .

He hits the junction and peels off to the right, following the sounds of fighting up ahead. Just as he thinks he must be getting close, there’s a shift and quiver in the air all around him. The hairs on Dean’s arms stand on end, and then the lights go out.

 

//

 

Sam wakes slowly, stirring against a hard, concrete floor. His wrists ache and there’s pain from a lump on his head, but what gives him pause is the nausea swirling around in his stomach from the _stink_. The overwhelming stench in the air hits him like a solid wall. Unfortunately, a lifetime as a hunter means it’s a smell he’s quite familiar with. It’s decay – mildew and mold and rotting meat. He wants to heave, but then the memories of his last moments of consciousness come back and adrenaline jolts through him. He was attacked, down at the docks. His eyes shoot open, and for a second, Sam thinks he must have gone blind. Everything is completely black, even as he blinks to try and adjust.

Robbed off his sight, he focuses on his other senses. He’s cold; with a start, he registers that his shirt is missing. Shifting against the floor, he tries to sit up, but the movement only serves to explain the pain in his wrists: he’s in chains, heavy ones, strung down and bolted to the floor. He brings his hands together to feel around for a keyhole, but there isn’t one. Puzzled, he drags his fingers over the metal, all the way to where the iron chain meets the cuff, but there’s nothing, not even a hinge. It’s as though the cuffs have been welded together.

Panic starts crawling up Sam’s spine, but he pushes it down. He’s been in worse than this before. Forcing a breath of putrid air, he leans back against the damp wall behind him and listens. Faintly, he hears the slosh of water, and the occasional creak and groan of metal. There’s a bit of relief in that; it’s a safe bet he’s still at the shipyard.

Struck by a sudden thought, he reaches for his pants pocket, but predictably, his phone is missing.

Dean and Cas knew where he was going. It’s been hours; they’ll notice when he doesn’t check in.

With little else to do, Sam resumes gathering what information he can from the space. He brings his knees up in front of him, then stomps his foot on the concrete floor. There’s an echo, but it’s slight, dull. The room he’s in must be relatively small. The wall at his back is metal, and as he slides his hand across he finds rivets, done in a vertical line. He follows it up towards the ceiling, then spots a patch that seems to glow a little lighter than the rest of the walls. Still blinking rapidly, his heart leaps when he realizes it’s a window, showing nothing more than the night sky. He stands, his hands pulled low by the short chain, but it’s far too high for him to climb. Perhaps in daylight he’ll be able to see something though, or at the very least, signal for help.

His back is bent from the chains, and the air smells even worse up higher, so Sam drops back down to the floor. The chains clank loudly against the concrete, so he almost misses the wheezing metal hinges of a door outside.

“Hello?” he calls, as his heart suddenly starts beating double-time. “Anybody out there?”

No one answers, but there are heavy footsteps drawing nearer and nearer.

Sam fumbles around on the floor, looking for something, anything, but he has no weapon, no means to defend himself, and before he can even scramble back up to his feet the door is flung open.

There’s light from out in the hall – bright enough Sam has to turn away – and when he looks back there’s a figure silhouetted in the doorway. It waits there a moment, then slowly steps over the lip and into the room. As it moves in closer, it catches some of the light from the hall, and Sam’s heart seizes in terror.

This must be the monster Jamie saw, because although it moves on two legs, this thing is far from human . The figure is tall and thin, with long, bony limbs draped all in black. From his spot on the floor, Sam cranes his neck up to see a pair of long, narrow horns emerging from its head, reaching high up toward the ceiling. It’s face – or the part of it that _should_ be a face – is covered in black too, a long, thick veil that drifts and swirls around as it moves.

It draws closer across the room, and the scent of decayed flesh gets impossibly stronger. Sam fights the urge to vomit again, but then the creature stops a few feet away and holds out two grey, skeletal hands.

For one bizarre moment, Sam thinks it’s offering to help him stand. Then a small, intricately carved metal bowl materializes in one hand, and in the other a long, shining silver knife.

Panic floods Sam’s body. “Who are you?” he shouts, drawing himself back against the wall. “What do you want?”

It slinks right up to his face, inches away, and through his fear Sam realizes that the veil isn’t fabric, really, it’s more like smoke made solid. It thins out part way up, just enough to reveal two dull red eyes, shining through the black.

Sam is frozen, staring, and then just above, the creature’s _third_ eye blinks open – grey-white and pupil-less.

“Get away from me!” Sam hears himself scream, but the creature pays him no heed, just reaches out with the silver knife.

Sam brings his chained hands up to block it as best he can, but the monster merely raises the other hand and instantly Sam’s arms are forced down, the chains pulling taut.

“No, no _don’t_ ,” he shouts, but the knife pierces his skin, drawing a long, deep line across his chest. He cries out in pain, but again the monster ignores him. It merely brings the metal bowl up beneath the cut to gather the blood.

Sam struggles to get free, but it’s no use. The chains are pulled down tight and the creature hovers above him, boxing him against the wall and pressing against his skin to coax more blood from the wound.

After what seems like hours, it steps back. The knife disappears from its hand, but the little bowl remains, filled to the brim with Sam’s blood. Without a word, it turns back around and heads for the door.

“What do you want with that?” Sam says, panting through the searing pain. “What are you gonna do with me?”

The creature steps over the lip of the door and moves a little out of the way, allowing the light from the hallway to spill into the room. It still doesn’t speak, but slowly turns to its left, and then to its right. Sam follows its gaze, and finally finds the source of the penetrating stench.

With mounting horror, Sam looks around his prison cell, piled high with more than a dozen dead bodies.

 

//


	2. Chapter 2

“Dean. _Dean_.”

Dean jolts awake in an instant, turning over on his bed and instinctively reaching under the pillow for his gun. Only his gun isn’t there. And this isn’t his pillow.

He scrambles upright with his fists raised, only to find Cas smiling back at him, hands raised in pacifying surrender. “It’s okay, it’s me.”

“Jeez, Cas. What the hell happened?” He pauses, lowering his fists and glancing around at his completely foreign surroundings. “Where are we?”

“A houseboat,” Cas says. “It was the closest place I could find.”

Now that he’s paying attention, Dean notes the sun streaming through a row of round windows. The room is full of sturdy, compact furniture, and he’s lying on a double bed covered in a disgustingly 80s floral comforter. As he adjusts himself, swinging his legs over the side, he suddenly registers the sharp ache in his right shoulder.

“Ah, fuck.” He winces, pulling down the collar of his t-shirt to examine what he’s sure must be a gaping wound. Instead, he finds nothing but smooth, unbroken skin. “Huh. My shoulder kills. Must just be a bruise.”

“I think you landed on it when you fell,” Cas says.

Dean looks back up to find him sitting placidly in a chair by the bed. “What was it? I heard you fighting something.”

Strangely, Cas just keeps smiling at him. “Demons. Just a few of them. I thought I’d killed them all, but then one came up behind you. Don’t you remember?”

Dean furrows his brow, trying to sort through the fuzzy memories. “Not really. Everything just sort of blacked out.” He looks back up at Cas, still confused, then over to the windows. “How long have I been out? It was barely dark.”

“It’s early,” Cas says serenely. “But I wanted to let you sleep. You needed your rest.”

“To hell with that, Cas,” Dean says, struggling to stand, his sore shoulder screaming out in protest. “We still need to get to Sam. I found his phone, before you called for help.”

“He’ll be alright.” Cas stands from his chair as well, and takes a step closer to Dean, right into his personal space. “Let’s just stay here for a while. You need to rest.” He reaches out and drags a hand down Dean’s arm, all the way to his wrist.

There’s a tingling unease at the back of Dean’s neck and he pulls away, unnerved. “The hell’s the matter with you? You been hitting the Xanax while I’ve been out?”

Cas’ face forms that strange, slow smile again. “Nothing’s wrong, Dean.”

“So what, you’re suddenly not pissed at me anymore?” Dean says, trying to ignore the way Cas has stepped in close again. The backs of his knees are pressing against the mattress.

“Why would I be?” Cas says, his voice almost coy. His hands drift up to smooth across Dean’s stomach, then he finds the hem of the t-shirt and starts lifting it.

Dean’s heart rate spikes. “Whoa whoa, what are you doing?”

“I just want to check your shoulder,” he says, still working the shirt up. “You said it was hurting.”

“Yeah, but hey –” Dean splutters, but Cas pulls the shirt all the way off. “This is – this isn’t the _time_ , Cas.”

But Cas seems to be ignoring him. “Hmm. I think you’re right, it is bruised,” he muses.

Dean’s breathing very heavily as Cas slowly leans in and presses his lips to the joint.

This is _not_ right.

“Cas, stop, we gotta. . . Sammy could be hurt.” He tries to pull away again, but Cas is intoxicating.

“You worry too much,” Cas says, still pressing wet, lush kisses to his shoulder. Then he starts to move up to Dean’s neck.

Somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, that niggling unease starts to scream louder, but it’s not as urgent as his cock, stirring in his pants. “ _Fuck_ , Cas. What are you –”

He’s cut off by the sound of his ringtone. Awareness snaps back, and blinking, he pulls it out of his pocket to answer, while Cas takes half a step away. “Hello?”

“Dean, hey, where are you guys?”

Dean’s heart leaps, and he finds Cas’ eyes. “Sammy?”

“Yeah, what’s going on? I’m back at the motel, what happened to you guys?”

Relief flows through every inch of him. “Jeez, Sam. We’re at the docks still, we couldn’t find you. There were demons.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says. “They jumped me, I lost my phone. Get back here, we’ll figure out our next move.”

“Right.” Dean blinks, still trying to shake off the spell, but Cas is still close to him, holding Dean’s eyes. “We’ll. . .”

“We’ll be back soon, Sam,” Cas says, then reaches out for the phone and hangs up. “See? I told you he was alright.” He steps in again.

Dean swallows. “Yeah, guess so. We should, um, we should get back there.” He wants to move away, but he’s still boxed in, knees hitting the bed.

Cas tilts his head, an unfamiliar glint of mischief in his eye. “What’s your hurry?”

Then he leans all the way in and kisses Dean on the mouth.

The warning bells in the back of Dean’s mind start to fade; he can’t help it, he gives into it, kissing back hungrily, and _god_ he’s missed this. . .

“Wait, wait, Cas,” he pulls away a bit, swallowing. “We – we should talk. About before –”

“No, no,” Cas says softly, then with one hand he shoves against Dean’s chest, finally sending him toppling back onto the bed. Cas leans down, crawling forward to hover above him. “No more talking.”

His body sinks down, and Dean is lost.

 

//

 

The third cut stings as much as the first and second. Sam cries out each time, but the creature never reacts, never lets up, never gives an inch. All Sam can do is scream and swear and try to fight through the pain.

“I’m getting out of here,” he spits, as the monster moves away with another full bowl. “My friends are coming for me. They’re gonna kill you.”

It pauses, briefly, then moves back through the door. It slams shut, and Sam is left in silence again.

Daylight is now streaming through the porthole window above, but Sam has never wished so badly for the darkness. The smell was awful enough, but seeing. . . seeing is so much worse.

Some of the corpses are ancient – skeletons crumbling to dust. Some are weeks old. And it’s not just the bodies, the floor and walls are all splashed in blood, turned rusty brown. It seems they all shared the same fate: there are long cuts visible on the torsos of the ones with flesh still clinging to the bones. Whatever the monster is, it’s been doing this a long time.

And if possible, _it’s_ even worse in the light as well. In the dark, Sam hadn’t properly appreciated the grey, papery skin hanging from its bones, or the eerie, skittering way it moved. The smoky veil has thankfully stayed in place; Sam’s seen its eyes and he doesn’t want to know what else is behind it.

Fortunately, it seems that he has some time. Now that there’s light in the room, he notices the clusters of hash marks on all the walls. They’re in groups, each clearly made by a different hand. He counts over two hundred days in the largest grouping, and fifty-four in the smallest. The creature needs blood, and it’s willing to drag things out. Hopefully, long enough for a rescue.

The morning wears on. Sam spends his time reaching around as much as he can, looking for anything he could fashion into a weapon or tool. He finds a loose rivet beneath the body closest to him, but with no keyhole to pick on the handcuffs, there’s little he can do with it.

He refuses to scratch his own has mark on the wall. He isn’t that far gone, not yet. And his family is coming for him.

It’s sometime mid-afternoon when Sam hears voices through the window.

“Hello?” he calls urgently, struggling to stand. “Hey, somebody up there?”

Shadows move across the window; there’s someone mere feet away.

“He’s not here, Cas.”

Sam almost collapses with relief. “ _Dean_! Dean hey, down here!”

“It’s just as well.” Cas’ voice drifts down through the glass as well. “Things will be a lot easier now, without him.”

Sam falters, stunned, but he shakes it off. “Guys, I’m down here, hello!” With a furtive glance at the door, he starts banging on the metal walls. “ _Guys_.”

Neither of them react.

“Tell me about it,” Dean says fervently. “I mean, I know he’s my brother, but jeez, I can’t take it anymore.”

This isn’t right, this can’t be real. Dean would _never_ – “Hey! Dean, Cas, guys, get me _out_ of here!” He gathers the chain and starts smacking it against the wall as well.

“We’ll be so much happier now,” Cas says.

“ _No,_ guys!” This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

The shadows move away, and the voices fade.

Sam keeps slamming on the walls, over and over, long after he knows they’ve left.

 

 

//

 

Time passes slowly in the warm, sunlit bedroom. Dean has no idea what’s going on, but he’s long past caring. Everything is soft and hazy, dream-like. Cas is incredible; his hips undulate, his body moves slow and sinuous, and through it all, he’s kissing Dean deep and drugged.

This isn’t like before. He’s never felt _devoured_ like this.

Cas leans up for a moment, bracing his hands on Dean’s chest and rolling his hips. Enraptured, Dean watches him move, but then something flickers in the corner of his eye. He turns his head to the door, and for a second the room is different, darker.

Dean blinks, confused, and the mirage vanishes.

“Look at me.”

Drawn back as if on command, Dean finds Cas’ eyes again. “I thought I –”

“Shh,” Cas whispers. “There’s nothing there.” He leans down again, lavishing Dean’s mouth with teeth and tongue.

Helpless, Dean kisses him back, and then there’s a noise to his left and he looks over. Again, the scene is different, but before he can focus Cas grabs his chin, pulling him back roughly.

“It’s fine, Dean. It’s just us.” His kiss turns insistent.

“No, wait, _hey_ , there’s something –” Dean starts.

The hand on his chin grips tighter, almost enough to hurt. “You must have hit your head when you fell too,” Cas says firmly. “Just focus on me.”

“I – no, _stop_.” The fog in Dean’s head is slowly starting to lift. This is _wrong_ , they’ve been here for hours, they need to get back to Sam.

Dean pushes at Cas’ shoulders, forcing him off. He shuffles to his feet, hiking his jeans back up over his hips and squinting around at the room.

A hand drops on his shoulder, and Cas comes around in front of him. “Dean, relax,” he says, then tries to capture his lips again.

“No, hey, what is _up_ with you, man?” Dean says, stepping back and holding Cas at arms length. “Something’s wrong with you, you’re not acting like yourself.”

Cas opens his mouth to respond, but then suddenly there’s a swishing sound through the air, followed by a thud.

Confused, Dean glances down to see a rusty piece of rebar protruding from Cas’ bare chest.

“ _No!_ ” Dean cries, his heart stuttering in horror.

Cas crumples to the ground, unmoving, and Dean looks up for his attacker, only to find. . . another Cas, a little bloody, standing at the open doorway.

“You –” Dean can’t speak, confusion muddling with the shock and grief. “What did you –”

“Dean, listen to me,” the other Cas says, taking a cautious step forward. “It isn’t real.”

Dean shakes his head, still aghast. “No, who are you, what –”

“ _Dean_.” Other Cas takes another step, his palms raised. “Look at him. _Really_ look.”

This can’t be real, Cas can’t be dead – and nothing but that disbelief can compel him to look down.

Cas is still lying there prone, blood dripping from the wound on his back, but the longer Dean looks in bizarre, morbid curiosity, the more the image starts to change.

“Focus, Dean.”

The air ripples, like it had last night on the docks, and then finally the body vanishes, flickering away and leaving nothing but the piece of rebar, clean of blood.

Wide-eyed, Dean looks back up. “Cas?”

Cas, the _real_ Cas, nods, taking another step in. “Now, look at the room, Dean. Look at everything else.”

Dean stares at him, then does as he’s told, turning around slowly. He concentrates, and the walls start to shimmer, the furniture wobbles in the air. “What the –”

“ _Focus_.”

The image cracks, then splinters.

At once the windows vanish, the warm sunlight disappears, and everything fades, the colours all washing out. Gone is the tacky bedspread – instead, there’s only a dank and mouldering wool blanket, covered in rubble and fragments of wood. The walls are rusted and water-stained, the table and chairs are in crumbling pieces. The air reeks of rotten fish and mildew.

Mouth gaping, he turns back to Cas. “Oh, what the _hell_?”

“You see it all now?” he asks.

“Yeah, jeez, where the –”

Cas steps up close and socks him on the jaw, hard.

“ _Ow_ ,” Dean says, stumbling backwards. “What was _that_ for?”

“You lost your shirt,” Cas says acidly.

Dean flings himself back upright, rubbing his face. “I thought it was _you_!”

Narrowing his eyes, Cas steps up close again. “Do you really think that makes it better right now?”

“Okay, no, but. . .” Dean trails off, resuming his dumbfounded examination of the room. “What the hell was that?”

Cas takes another few seconds to glare before responding. “A mirage of some kind,” he says.

“So, it wasn’t _real_ , right? I mean, I just –” He swallows, avoiding Cas’ eyes. His skin is crawling. “It wasn’t some shapeshifter, or. . .”

“No,” Cas allows, and his voice sounds a little strained. “Whatever you saw or, um, _experienced_ – it was an illusion. A product of this place. Although I don’t know how.”

An involuntary shudder crawls up Dean’s spine, but when he moves his shoulder gives a throb. When he looks at it now, he sees that there’s a deep wound there, the skin around it dirty and matted with dried blood. “Damn, I _knew_ that was there.”

Huffing another long-suffering sigh, Cas starts tearing away a section of his shirt. “Sit down.” He scans the room, then walks over to a bucket on the ground against the far wall. Instead of grabbing it though, he just makes a face. “I think we’ll have to make do without cleaning it,” he says. “You don’t want to use this water.”

“Alright, fine,” Dean says with a grimace, perching on the edge of the disgusting bed. “Just hurry up, so we can figure out what the hell’s going on.” He pauses, frowning, as Cas comes back over with his makeshift bandage. “Where’ve you been, anyway? How long have we been here?”

“I don’t know how long,” he says, wrapping the bandage around Dean’s shoulder without bothering to be gentle about it. “I was dealing with my own. . . illusion.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, interest piqued. “Oh really?”

Cas pulls the knot tight and ignores Dean’s gasp of pain. “I saw through it, though. Rather easily.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“You were far too _nice_.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Dean says pointedly. “What happened? We were on the docks, you were fighting something.”

Cas sighs and moves away, finished with the dressing. “I don’t know what it was, I didn’t get a good look. The last thing I remember was hearing you running toward me.”

“Yeah, that’s where it stops for me too.” He stands and starts looking around for his shirt. “Sammy’s gotta be in here too somewhere, right? Stuck in dreamland?”

“Maybe,” Cas says. “We can only hope he’s better at recognizing reality than you were.”

Dean turns around to glare at him, only to find Cas holding his shirt out for him. Slightly embarrassed, he takes it, then another thought occurs to him. “How do I know it’s really you this time?”

“Would you like me to punch you again?”

 

//

 

The creature comes back two more times and takes two more bowls full of blood. Sam knows things are getting dire. The pain in his chest and abdomen is becoming harder to ignore, and the blood loss is making him weak and slow. Plus, there’s no water here, and since he hasn’t eaten in more than a day now, his stomach burns with hunger. He doesn’t know how much longer he can last like this.

Although, hungry as he is, he doubts he could manage food at this point. With every breath, he chokes on the air, thick and heavy with decay, and then there’s the bodies themselves.

There’s one propped up on the opposite wall, maybe a year or two dead. Her eyes are long gone, but Sam keeps finding himself staring into the sunken sockets, wreathed in withered grey skin. Sometimes, he thinks he sees her move.

He always pulls away though, and his eyes find the hash marks on the wall. He wonders how many of these prisoners went mad before the creature finally killed them. His gaze flits briefly back to the body, and he thinks he could understand why.

To distract himself, he makes more fruitless searches of the cell, but no matter how many times he looks, there’s nothing. There’s no weapon, no means of escape. Sam is just the very latest in a long line of victims, only one of whom managed to make it out.

He pauses. Jamie Marasco got out somehow, he must have found something in here, some means of escape. Sam starts looking again; he’s too weak to stand, but he scans the ground and the walls, all the way up to the high ceiling draped with cables. He’s craning his neck up to the window again when he spots something he’d missed before in the dark – a pair of symbols on the wall, painted in what looks like old blood.

The image nags at Sam for a moment, but then his stomach twists in recognition. The symbol on the wall, it’s Lucifer’s.

That doesn’t make sense. This creature isn’t Lucifer. And it isn’t a demon, it can’t be – it’s something older and much more powerful. It can make things materialize from nothing, it can force Sam’s chains down with one wave of its hand.

And it can get in Sam’s head, make him see things that aren’t real. Because that’s the only explanation for the Dean and Cas he saw through the porthole. That wasn’t real. The real Dean and Cas are still out there, looking for him.

His stomach lurches. Unless they’ve been captured too.

The door opens and the monster steps in again.

“Not full yet?” Sam hopes he sounded defiant, but he’s exhausted – probably delirious.

It moves in close, reaching out with the knife.

“You don’t wanna do that,” Sam mumbles. “You need me – you need me alive. I don’t know what for –” he swallows around his parched throat, “– but you can’t kill me.”

As ever, it disregards Sam’s pleas and draws the knife along his stomach.

Dizziness hits Sam in a wave, and he starts fading. This is it, he knows it, this is more blood loss than anyone can survive. His head drops back against the wall and he waits for the pain to stop.

And it does, all of a sudden. There’s a high, whining static in the air, and Sam’s head clears. The hunger leaves too, and the thirst, and he blinks his eyes open in time to see the white glow fade from the creature’s bony hand.

It stands and shuffles out of the room, clutching the bowl.

Sam stares at the door, long after it’s closed, as realization crashes down onto him.

 

//


	3. Chapter 3

Both of them now armed with nothing but matching lengths of rebar, Dean and Cas start making their way slowly around the ship, searching for any hint of Sam. They must be on a tanker or something, because the ship is massive – a maze of long, narrow hallways and low-ceilinged rooms that all seem to lead back in on themselves. There’s no rhyme or reason to the layout, as far as Dean can tell.

After more than two hours, he comes to a halt, throwing a hand up across Cas’ chest. “Okay, stop. We’ve been here before.”

“How can you tell?” Cas asks. “All these hallways look the same.”

Dean points at the wall to his right. “See that water stain? We’ve passed it already. Twice, I think.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “This ship is old, Dean, there are water stains everywhere.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean says, trying to hold onto his patience. “Except we’ve passed _this_ one specifically. I remember it.” Cas gives him a look that very clearly says _what the hell are you talking about_ , so Dean moves over to stand beside it. “I made a note of it because I thought it looked like Krusty the Clown.”

Predictably, Cas squints at him.

“Look, see, here’s the head, with the hair on the sides –”

“Okay, fine,” Cas says. “We’ve been here before. You’ve been leading us in circles.”

Annoyed, Dean drops the hand he’d been pointing at the stain. “What do you mean _I’ve_ been leading us in circles? Why is it my fault? Don’t answer that –” he says, before Cas can answer back. “You wanna lead, fine. After you.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, then starts off the way they came.

They walk for a few more minutes in curt silence, and then Cas pulls open an unfamiliar door.

“Okay,” Dean says, moving into the room. “Haven’t been here before.”

Cas doesn’t respond, but the way he steps over the lip of the doorframe is rather smug.

They’re in what must have been the galley. There are rows of long, metal tables and benches, half-disintegrated from rust. Cas steps around Dean and walks over to the wall of cabinets, opening cupboards at random.

“Anything useful?” Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head, moving further along the line. “It looks like whoever owned this place took everything with them when they left it.”

“Damn.” Dean eyes the rebar in his hand ruefully. “What I wouldn’t do for a kitchen knife right now.”

“We should keep moving,” Cas says, heading for the door on the opposite wall. “There’s nothing here.”

He pulls open the door and steps through it without waiting for Dean to catch up.

And then appears again immediately through the door they came in.

Dean blinks at him, and Cas blinks back.

“How did you get in front of me?” Cas asks.

Shaking his head, Dean looks between the two doors. “I didn’t. I didn’t move.”

Cas looks at the first door as well. “Hold on,” he says, then walks back through it.

“Cas, wait –” Dean says, but then Cas reappears at the far door. “Oh, no freakin’ way.”

“Here. Look out the door, but don’t walk through it,” Cas says.

Dean obliges, stepping up to the oval doorway and leaning his head forward as far as he can without crossing the threshold. “It’s the hallway, the same one we came in.” He turns back around to watch Cas do the same with the other door.

“And this one too,” he says. “It looks like another hallway.”

Dean glances around the room. “Hang on, lemme. . .” He snatches up a golf ball-sized piece of concrete from the ground, then walks back to his door. “Fore!” he calls, then whips it through the open door.

It hits the opposite wall in the hallway and crumbles.

“Huh,” Dean says, and turns back around. For some reason, Cas is glaring at him. “What?”

“What if that had come back in here?”

“Oh. Oops,” Dean says guiltily. Cas is still scowling at him, so Dean shrugs. “I said ‘fore.’”

Cas shuts his door and walks back into the centre of the room. “Alright. We’re trapped.”

“Great,” Dean says. “Freakin’ great.” He sits down on the edge of one of the tables, and Cas joins him a moment later.

“Maybe it’s like before,” Cas says thoughtfully.

“Before what,” Dean says, rolling his injured shoulder and wincing.

Cas turns to look at him. “I mean before. The. . . bedroom. With the, um. . .” He trails off and his cheeks go a little pink. “With the other me.”

“Oh.” Dean blushes too, then clears his throat and attempts to move them past it. “So you mean, not real. You think this is in our heads.”

“Only one way to find out,” Cas says, and he climbs off the table and heads back to the far door.

He stands there staring, for almost a solid minute, his face frozen in concentration. For a moment, Dean is reminded of the Cas he first met, stoic and intense. It seems like a million years ago.

“You could be helping.”

Dean startles. Cas hadn’t turned to face him, but his tone is laced with irritation. That’s pretty familiar too.

“Coming. Yeesh,” Dean says, then joins him at the door. “What am I –”

“ _Concentrate_ , like before,” Cas says. His eyes are wide, staring through the open door.

Dean rolls his own eyes, then follows Cas’ gaze, taking in the flat expanse of the outside hallway and trying to find the little cracks in the picture.

At first, nothing happens, but then finally the air starts moving again. He hears Cas pull in a sharp breath and, spurred on, he narrows his focus, until finally the image shatters, revealing a different hallway.

Shoulders relaxing in satisfaction, Cas steps through the door. Dean follows right after him into a long corridor lined with what looks like barracks. They haven’t been in this place before either.

“Was that it?” Dean turns around and peers back through the door to the galley. “You tellin’ me that all we need to get out of this is the power of our _minds_?” he asks incredulously.

“Some of us might struggle with that more than others,” Cas says mildly , then takes off down the hall.

“Real nice,” Dean grumbles, but with no other recourse, he follows.

 

//

 

Sam’s fingers are bleeding. He’s broken a few nails and the pads of his thumbs are tender, but he grits his teeth and keeps working. It’s difficult in the dark.

If he’s right, the creature should be back any minute. It’s hard to keep track of time, now that the sun’s gone again, but relying on one’s internal clock was one of John Winchester’s earliest lessons. Besides, at least he doesn’t have to look at his. . . cellmates anymore.

As predicted, Sam hears the creature’s footsteps only a few minutes later. He’s not even halfway done, so he tucks the rivet inside the cuff, where it presses against his skin. He has to be sure.

The door swings open with a groan, and like before, the creature steps over the lip and starts its creeping advance.

Sam straightens up, flattening his back against the wall and propping up his knees. “You can drop the act,” he says.

The creature pauses, just for a second, then starts moving forward again, the familiar knife and bowl in its hands.

“Really,” Sam says, keeping his voice light, casual. “I mean, you had me going there. The whole creepy, skeletal, three-eyes thing, it’s good. And the horns are a nice touch.”

It halts again, and Sam notes with satisfaction it seems a little uncertain.

He leans forward from the wall, bringing his face as close to the creature as he can. “But I know what you are. _Angel_.”

It’s just one, tiny word, but the revelation rings out in the silence.

They both stay frozen, locked in a holding pattern, until finally the creature lowers its hands. The atmosphere all around it pulses, quivers, and then the beast mirage fractures, leaving nothing but a small figure.

Like her disguise, she’s dressed all in black, but this time it’s a dirty and ragged dress. Her head is bowed, so her dark lengths of matted hair shroud her face just as well as the veil. But then slowly she stands up straight, and the hair parts to reveal sallow, shrunken skin and two gleaming green eyes.

 

 

“Hmm, hmm,” she says, giving slight, twitching shakes of her head. “Clever boy.”

Sam smirks, satisfied. “Wasn’t that hard to figure out. I’ve been healed with grace enough times to know what it feels like. And the rest. . .” He tilts his head up to the symbols on the wall behind him. “The rest all fell into place after that. The sigils, the mind games – you’re not just any angel, are you?”

Her eyes narrow, then dart around the cell.

“You’re a Grigori.”

At that, she makes a harsh, hissing sound, lips parting in a deranged smile that reveals brown and rotting teeth. “How do you know of us?” she says. Her voice is thin and rather shrill.

“Oh, I’ve been around the block a few times,” Sam says. “You got a name?”

After a pause, she straightens up, holding her chin high. “Sathariel. The angel of deception. And the Prince’s most trusted servant.” There’s a strange, manic glint in her eye.

“Really.” Sam tilts his head. “You and Lucifer. Seriously.”

In an instant she jerks her head back down and pins him with a glare.

Sam shrugs. “It’s just, I’ve – unfortunately – gotten to know Lucifer pretty well over the years.” He leans forward again. “And I’ve never heard of you.”

“ _Lies_ ,” she shrieks, then darts into Sam’s space before he has time to blink. “I am his _most_ – his faithful –” Her gnarled hands dart out and wind themselves in his hair, twisting painfully. “His _lover_. The others, all of them, they were _weak_. They left our _Lord._ ”

She’s inches from him, blowing rotten breath across his face.

Her head shakes again, those sharp little spasms. “But not me,” she hisses. “I’m waiting for him. For my lover to return for me.”

Sam makes a futile attempt to jerk his head away. “Then go to him. What do you need me for, huh? What are you doing with my blood? With _all_ of our blood?”

One of Sathariel’s hands drops to his chest, and she drags a long, yellowing fingernail across his chest. “Your blood is _special_ , don’t you know?” she whispers. “You, this. . . flesh.”

Again, Sam tries to pull away, but the hand in his hair grips tighter and the fingernail starts to cut into his skin.

“This was _made_ for him. It _belongs_ to him.”

“Vessels,” Sam says, understanding hitting him in a solid wave. “You’ve been taking Lucifer’s vessels. All of them, for _years_.”

“Longer. Much longer. These,” Sathariel jerks her head to the bodies all around them, “are only a few.”

He wants to vomit. “Why?”

She bares her teeth again, and her eyes turn hungry. “Your blood. . . is his blood.” And she dips her head to his chest.

“No, _don’t_ ,” Sam shouts, but he can feel it: her tongue drawing across the cut, lapping up the blood. Revulsion churns in his gut, but he can’t move away.

Finally, she pulls back and draws her head level with his again. There’s glistening red painting her lips and chin. “And so shall it be mine.”

 

//

 

“Cas, we’re not gettin’ anywhere,” Dean gripes, turning the corner of yet another long, moldy corridor. Despite getting through the galley, they’re still going around in circles.

“You’re not concentrating,” Cas says. “You need to focus –”

“Alright, that’s it.” Dean comes to a dead halt, bringing an exhausted hand up to rub at his temples. “I’ve had it. Split up.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “That’s a stupid idea.”

“We’re clearly not getting anywhere like this,” Dean snaps. “Who the hell knows what Sam’s facing in here. We split up, we double our chances of finding him.”

“Or,” Cas says, crossing his arms, “you get trapped in another illusion, and I have to rescue you again.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not falling for the softcore porno shtick again. I think I’m pretty good at spotting the real you now.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “Fine. Maybe this way, I’ll get a little peace and quiet.” He turns on his heel and starts off down the hall.

For a moment, Dean feels an instinctive fluttering of panic, but he pushes it aside and walks in the opposite direction.

However, as soon as he turns his first corner, he runs smack into Cas again.

They stare at one another, blinking.

Cas looks back the way he came, then around to Dean again. Without another word, he purses his lips, pivots, and heads back down the hall.

Dean gives him almost a minute’s head start, then takes a different turn at the intersection.

Within thirty seconds, he meets Cas at another junction.

“You need to –”

“Cas, I swear to god, if you tell me to _concentrate_ one more time. . .”

Cas throws his arms up and marches on.

Begrudgingly, Dean tries to focus a little more. He stares at the walls and the floor, moving slowly and keeping his eyes peeled for the seams stitching the mirages together.

It seems to work; he stops running into Cas at every turn, and it looks like he’s moving deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ship. The metal walls clank and groan, echoing along the halls, and the air gets musty and stale.

“ _Hello?_ ”

Dean’s heart leaps, and his eyes jump to a door ten feet ahead along the hall. The voice is feeble and dull, but it’s unmistakable. “ _Sammy?”_

“Here. Dean. . .”

With a furtive look around, Dean jogs up to the door and spins the handle, then pushes it wide.

The room is small, and the air smells like rotting flesh. Sam is against the far wall, chained to the ground. There are deep cuts all over his chest and stomach.

“Sam, damnit,” Dean says, crossing the room in two strides and dropping to his knees. “You okay? Jeez, you reek like death.”

Sam is almost unconscious; his head keeps drooping against his chest. “We gotta move,” he mumbles. “Before it comes back.”

Dean slips his lock-pick from his back pocket and gets to work on the cuffs. “Alright, we’re goin.’ What is it? Me and Cas have been dealing with all kinds of crazy out there.”

But it doesn’t seem like Sam can say more.

“Alright Sasquatch, hold on,” Dean says, biting down on his tongue in concentration as he jimmies the pick in the keyhole. After a few agonizingly long seconds, it clicks, and the heavy iron pops open. “Okay, up we get.”

He slings Sam’s loose arms across his shoulders and pulls them up, then starts an uneven, lumbering walk to the door. “Alright, watch your step, let’s go,” he says, guiding Sam over the lip.

The hall is still empty, so he starts back the way he came, hauling Sam along with him as quick as he can. Cas was right – splitting up was a stupid idea.

Sam’s feet are dragging, and his weight is heavy on Dean’s neck. “C’mon man, you’re killin’ me,” he says. Sam just mumbles in response.

Suddenly there are footsteps around a corner up ahead. “Ah, crap,” Dean says, trying to bring his length of rebar up.

It’s Cas that rounds the corner though, and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. “Cas, jeez. Gimme a hand, would you? He’s bleeding pretty bad.”

Cas doesn’t move though. His wide eyes are locked on Sam.

Dean frowns. “Cas? That’s you, right?”

“Dean. . .” Cas says, still staring at Sam, horror-struck.

“Hey, buddy, snap out of it. Damn, did you see something again?”

Finally, Cas peels his eyes away to look at Dean. “Dean, listen to me.”

“The hell’s the matter with you, Cas, get over here and help me carry him. We gotta clear out before the thing that did this to him gets back.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says firmly. “Listen to me. _That’s not Sam._ ”

The scene flickers.

Dean swallows. “Cas. . .”

Cas nods, slowly. “Look.”

He doesn’t want to. He _really_ doesn’t want to. But he turns his head, focuses, and watches as the face of his brother splinters apart to reveal a desiccated corpse slung across his shoulders.

 

//


	4. Chapter 4

Sathariel returns a few hours later, although with the knife and bowl again this time.

“I don’t know why you bothered with the creepy monster gimmick,” Sam says, taking in her knotted hair and grubby dress. “You look plenty scary already.”

She merely sneers at him and stoops down.

“I mean it,” Sam says through gritted teeth, as the blade slices along his stomach. “You looked in a mirror lately? You’re not really working to maintain your vessel, are you – _agh_.”

The blade twists a bit as it’s withdrawn, and Sathariel roughly shoves the bowl into his abdomen to catch the blood.

Sam grunts in pain until she finally pulls away. “Basic hygiene. All I ask,” he adds, panting.

She growls a little, but otherwise ignores him and heads back to the door.

“It’s funny,” Sam says. “You don’t really seem like Lucifer’s type.”

Sathariel stiffens, then slowly pivots around to face him again. “You’re wrong. We are _eternal_. And he – he will come for me –”

“And what does that mean?” Sam says, trying to apply a little pressure to the cut. “‘Come for you,’ what are you waiting for?”

Strangely, Sathariel suddenly looks nervous. If there was any colour left in her pallid cheeks, Sam thinks they’d turn red.

“Oh, I get it.” A slow grin inches across Sam’s face. “He gave you the boot, didn’t he? Kicked you out of the Lucifer fan club.”

She’s in his face an instant later, darting across the room and grabbing him by the throat, hard. Her eyes are wild and manic, and he can feel the point of the knife at his ribs.

“You can’t. . . kill me,” he chokes out. “You need me.”

“Perhaps not,” she spits. “Maybe you’re more trouble than you’re _worth_.” She squeezes tighter around his throat.

Sam’s hands are scrabbling uselessly at her fingers, trying to drag them away. Black creeps into the edges of his vision.

Then without warning, she releases his throat, leaving Sam to gasp and heave against the wall.

He fights to clear his head. “I’ll get out,” he says. “Jamie Marasco got out.”

At that, her face breaks into a delighted grin. “You mean that little boy before you? The one I set free?”

Sam’s heart sinks.

“I heard you were out there, Sam Winchester,” she says, lovingly tracing the knife tip up his chest and bringing her mouth in close to his. “The _true_ vessel. I had to know what you. . . _taste_ like. So I let one of them go, and you – you walked right in my front door.”

Disgusted, he turns his head away. “My brother’s coming for me,” he says, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.

“I’ve been here a long time,” she says softly. “I know how to stay hidden, and protected. They won’t get to you.” She grabs his face and wrenches it back to meet her shining eyes. “Not in time.”

She turns and strides from the room, leaving Sam alone in the darkness.

 

//

 

“There will never, _ever_ , be enough showers for this,” Dean says, trailing along behind Cas and attempting to wipe the traces of _corpse_ off his shirt. The image of Sam’s face morphing into a stinking, worm-ridden body is going to feature heavily in his nightmares from now on, he knows it.

“Be grateful you just have cleanliness to worry about,” Cas says, keeping his eyes peeled on the hallways in front of them. “At least it was only a dead body.”

“Oh, only that?” With a final shudder of his shoulders, Dean moves up to fall into step beside Cas.

Even though Dean can’t fully see his face, he can feel Cas’ eye roll. “Well you’re not dead. Yet,” he says.

Before Dean can reply, they turn a corner and come out into an open space. Cas brings up a hand, and they both stop dead and bring their lengths of rebar up at the ready.

Whatever their quarry is, it’s fairly obvious it’s been here. There’s an altar at one end of the room, covered in piles of old candlewax, long since burned down. Along the walls are shelves lined with vials and flasks full of a dark liquid, and Dean’s stomach seizes when he realizes it’s all blood – gallons of it. Shoved into one corner are heaps of mouldering clothes, covered with layers of dust. The air is thick with the scent of decay, the strongest it’s been anywhere else on the ship.

“What d’you think?” Dean asks, moving cautiously towards a glint of silver peeking out from under a pile of black cloth. “Den? Nest?”

“Most likely.” Cas has stepped up to the wall and is peering at the vials of blood, looking nauseated. “We should –”

He cuts himself off and waves a hand at Dean, his eyes locked on the opposite end of the corridor. After a moment Dean hears it too – footsteps, moving toward them quickly.

They both take a few steps back, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and bracing for a fight.

After a breathless moment, a figure rounds the corner.

It’s. . . another Dean.

Dean’s just about had it with the crazy in this place. He’s looking at himself, a mirror image holding an identical piece of rebar and staring back blankly.

“Oh, _c’mon_ ,” Dean and his double say in unison.

Dean turns to Cas, completely thrown, only to find Cas staring at the other him, squinting.

Panic flares up in his stomach. “Whoa, hey, Cas, that’s not me. _I’m_ me.”

“Oh, now hold on a damn minute.” The other Dean takes a step forward and brings the rebar up. “Cas, get away from him. He’s not real.”

“Like hell.” Dean moves in, trying to put himself between Cas and. . . himself. “Buddy, don’t listen. It’s me, you know it’s me.” He chances a glance over his shoulder and meets Cas’ suspicious eyes. “ _Cas_.”

Other Dean takes another step forward, glaring at Dean. “Get away from him.”

“No, _you_ get away from him, damnit! Cas, do the thing, concentrate, _look at him_.”

But Cas keeps silent, his eyes going back and forth between the two Deans rapidly.

“Cas, we split up, remember?” Other Dean is searching out Cas’ eyes, imploring. “I was pissed off and said we should take our chances alone.”

Cas narrows his eyes.

Other Dean moves in a little more. “Big mistake, buddy, I get that. But you need to _trust me_ , and get away from him.”

“Go to hell, you, you – you friggin’ _Harvey wannabe_ ,” Dean spits, his heart pounding in fear. Cas knows him, Cas won’t turn on him. . .

“Kill ‘im,” Other Dean says, and Dean looks at Cas in panic. “Kill him and let’s get the hell outta this place.”

Instantly, Cas’ shoulders settle, and Dean holds his breath. His sweaty fingers are slipping on the rebar, and he prays to whoever’s listening he won’t have to use it on Cas.

But then faster than Dean can blink, Cas moves, whipping the rebar through the air once again. It flies across the room and imbeds itself in his double’s chest. It crumples instantly.

Dean stares at Cas, the wave of relief not enough to calm the adrenaline still coursing through him. “How did you know?”

Cas shrugs. “The real you never would’ve wanted to leave without Sam.”

“Uh, yeah, true.” Dean frowns, as Cas starts walking over to the body. “Hey, what if you were wrong?”

“I suppose I would’ve killed you then,” Cas says, sounding rather unconcerned as he bends down to retrieve his weapon.

“Okay, you know what –”

Suddenly Cas flies through the air, backwards until he smacks into the wall. Before Dean can move to help him he’s shoved back too, slamming hard into the creaking metal with a grunt of pain.

They watch in horror as Other Dean rises from the floor, still impaled by the length of metal. “Damn, I was so _close_. One little slip of the tongue. And not the good kind,” he says, throwing Cas a wink.

Cas glares at him, struggling fruitlessly against the wall.

“Oh, I know,” Other Dean says, face falling into mock sympathy. “You miss this tongue, don’t you?” He makes a few obscene licks in Cas’ direction, and Dean’s stomach curls in disgust.

“Hey, doppel-douche,” Dean says. “Get that creepy-ass look off my face. And for the record, Cas doesn’t miss _jack_.”

Other Dean moves towards him then, his expression still mocking. “That’s right, isn’t it? He left, didn’t he? Skulked out in the middle of the night.” They both watch as Other Dean reaches up and slowly draws the rebar from his chest. It pulls free with a sickeningly wet, sucking sound, and then the double grins at Dean, wide and teasing. “Who’d’ve thought Mr. Holy Roller would’ve been the hit-it and quit-it type.”

Dean feels his face flush red. “How ‘bout you shut your mouth.”

“You wanted some cuddle time, didn’t you Dean-o?” He throws a brief look across to Cas. “He’s a sensitive soul, our boy here. But Cas, he doesn’t want that from you. Never did.”

“Stop it,” Cas snaps, his eyes flashing. “We’re not listening to your lies.”

Other Dean shakes his head and wags the rebar back and forth. “Oh, I don’t lie. I’m from your minds, after all.”

Again, Cas tries to pull away from the wall. “Well then at least _one_ of you is very confused. That isn’t what happened, and we all know it.”

Dean frowns to himself, thrown, but he pushes it away as he watches his double advancing on Cas, head tilted threateningly.

“Oh no? You left, didn’t you? Made your little pre-dawn walk of shame?”

Gritting his teeth, Cas stares him down. “I’m not doing this with you, whatever you are.”

“Hmm,” Other Dean says, and then draws back his arm. “I think you are,” he says, then swings the rebar wide, striking a heavy blow to Cas’ stomach.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean yells, as Cas gasps in pain. They’re running out of time.

Other Dean squares up and strikes Cas again, harder. “Dean regrets it, Cas. You know it, I know it. Just think how he was the next morning. He hasn’t looked you in the eye for days.”

“Get away from him you _psycho_ ,” Dean says. He wrenches himself away from the wall, as hard as he can, but then he stops.

This is nuts. It isn’t _real_. It’s the houseboat bedroom and the hallways that bend in on themselves. He has to –

He stares at Other Dean, locks onto him and concentrates harder than he has in his life. Cas is whimpering in pain as the double hits him again and again but Dean doesn’t let up. It’s fake, it’s all in their heads.

It’s an eternity, Dean’s heart hammering in his chest, but finally the image starts to fracture. He wills Cas to hold on as the illusion starts to flicker, losing its power, and then all at once it shatters, the pieces falling to the ground and disintegrating.

At once, the double’s hold on them disappears, and they both sag down to the ground. Dean looks over to find Cas staring at his torso in confusion, apparently unhurt.

Relieved and completely winded, Dean closes his eyes and slumps back against the wall. Before he can relax though, Cas is there, hauling him up.

“You wanted me to stay?” he asks incredulously.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Of course I fucking did. Why do you think I’ve been so pissed?”

“I thought you were pretending it never happened.” Cas is staring at him wide-eyed.

“Why the hell would I –”

Cas practically _pounces_ on him, shoving him back against the wall and pulling their mouths together with a hand at the back of Dean’s head. A weight seems to lift off Dean’s shoulders and he moans into Cas’ mouth, kissing back eagerly. This is so, _so_ much better than before. Cas feels solid and real, his hands running up Dean’s neck and through is hair.

After a few, glorious minutes, Cas breaks the kiss, pulling away and panting against Dean’s cheek. “We should, um. . . do this later.”

“Right,” Dean says, awareness coming back with rather rude abruptness. “We find Sam, kill whatever nasty this is, and then get us a second fucking room at the motel.”

 

//

 

Light is just beginning to creep into the cell again; it’s not sunlight, but the faint grey-blue light that comes pre-dawn. Sam had been hoping Sathariel would come back sooner. He’s finished his work, and he’d rather not have to see the other bodies in the cell again.

But the timing of this has to be precise. Wait too long and he’ll be caught out. Go to early, and his plan won’t work at all.

It isn’t too much longer before Sathariel’s shuffling footsteps creep down the hall, and Sam straightens up, pulling his knees to his chest, getting ready to move.

The door swings open, and she enters, carrying the knife – and a much larger bowl.

“Hmm, I think you were right before,” she says, voice high and eyes glittering. “I think I’m better off taking what I can.” She steps in close.

Using the edges of the cuffs, Sam applies pressure to the joint of his thumbs. He grits his teeth against the pain, pressing harder and harder until finally, with two loud pops, the bones break.

Sathariel pauses, confused eyes dropping to his hands, but Sam’s already moving, ripping his wrists free of the cuffs and pushing up to his feet.

She throws up a hand, but Sam’s already sweeping out his leg to catch her by the knees. She drops with a shriek, and then Sam is there with the chains, wrapping them around her as tight as he can.

“ _No_!” She screams in rage and starts to struggle, but the roughly-hewn sigils on the chain glow brighter the harder she tries.

“Lucky for you, I know my Enochian,” Sam pants, cradling both broken thumbs to his chest. He takes a few staggering steps backwards towards the door.

“ _No, you can’t_ ,” she cries, kicking out her legs futilely. “I need – I must have – _release me_!”

Sam keeps backing up until his heels hit the lip of the doorframe. “Go to Hell. I’ll tell Lucifer you said hi.”

Her screams echo after him as he lurches out the door and down the hall.

The air out in the hallway starts to lift the moment he crosses the threshold. It’s still putrid, but he can feel his head clearing, the scent of decaying flesh replaced by mildew and seawater. He starts wandering, half-jogging, as fast as he can through the maze of twisting hallways. He got the spell correct, he’s sure of that, but the work was rough and half done in darkness. It may not hold for long.

There’s rubble and scraps of metal everywhere, littering the stained and mouldering carpets. Sam nearly faceplants when he throws a glance over his shoulder and trips over a twisted piece of a metal support beam. He manages to stay upright, but then suddenly he hears footsteps approaching from around a corner.

He’s weak still, the last few cuts unhealed and his thumbs useless, but Sam braces himself as best he can, swollen fists raised.

And Dean and Cas round the corner.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, his voice relieved but wary. He throws an uncertain glance to Cas.

Cas smiles, nodding slightly. “I think it’s him.”

“It’s me,” Sam says wearily, swaying with the effort to keep upright. “And that’s really you? I thought I saw you before, only –”

“Yeah, we’ve seen some crazy shit too,” Dean says, shaking his head. Then he smiles and steps in, wrapping his arms around Sam’s shoulders. “You okay, man?”

Exhausted, Sam shakes his head as he pulls away. “Not really. We gotta get the hell out of here.”

“The Grigori, right?” Dean asks.

Sam nods. “How’d you know?”

“We found this,” Cas says, and for the first time Sam notices the long, silver sword dangling from his hand. “It was in what I suppose counts for a bedroom.”

“Add that to all the crap we’d been seeing, and Cas figured it all out,” Dean says, grinning at Cas and looking somewhere between proud and smug.

“Well, that’s great,” Sam says, eyes on the sword. “Gimme a sec.” He reaches out and pulls the sword from Cas’ hand, then turns back the way he came, still dizzy but filled with renewed purpose.

He can hear Dean and Cas hurrying after him. “Uh, Sammy?”

“I’ve got her tied down with Enochian chains, but it won’t hold long.”

They come to the cell again after a minute or two, finding Sathariel still trapped against the floor, struggling against the chains. She freezes at the sight of the three of them in the doorway, and her eyes drop to the angel sword.

“How _dare_ you touch –”

“Yeah. _Shut up_ ,” Sam says, then without another word he strides forward and plunges the sword through her chest.

Her scream is horrible, piercing through the air even louder than the rush of static that pours from her burning eyes.

The light and sound fade, and Sam stumbles backwards, drained.

Dean and Cas each catch an arm, supporting his weight.

“Alright, let’s go, Sam,” Dean says, as Cas bends to grab the sword. “You’ve got a couple scratches there.”

“It’s fine,” Sam says, even as he feels his strength waning.

After throwing one last look at the bodies strewn about the cell, they head back out into the hall, all linked together like they’re doing a three-legged race.

“We’ll getcha out of here and clean you up,” Dean says.

“Hopefully it’ll be easier getting out than it was getting in,” Cas says. “Now that the Grigori is dead, maybe her magic died with her.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, exhausted, as the two of them guide him over the lip of a door frame.

After a few minutes of walking, Sam sees light pouring into the hallway up ahead of them. A long sigh of relief flows from his chest – he’s going to feel the sun again.

“There, what’d we tell ya?” Dean says. “We’ll get you back to the motel and back to your own room, and you can get lots of sleep.”

Sam turns his head to Dean, puzzled. “What d’you mean, ‘my own room?’”

“Yeah, about that. . .”

 

//

**Author's Note:**

>  **Spoilery dubcon explanation** : In this fic, Dean and Cas are both subjected to reality-bending situations and illusions. There is a scene wherein Dean is seduced by an illusion that looks like Cas, in an M-rated sex scene. The illusion is a product of Dean’s own mind, as opposed to a malevolent creature in and of itself, but it is rather insistent about getting Dean to stay in bed. There is some coercive language used. Read with caution.


End file.
